


Masks

by thievinghippo



Series: Bethroot Cadash [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5134745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Judgment changed them both. Now Blackwall and the Inquisitor must work their way through shattered pedestals to find a foundation on which to build.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

What the _fuck_ was he thinking?

Blackwall’s heart seems to beat outside his chest, loud enough to almost drown out the uproar of all the people who have come to see his Judgment. He didn’t want to give them a circus, yet that’s exactly what he’s done by kissing his lady in front of the entire hall. But as a guard takes off the manacles on his wrists, Blackwall can’t find it in himself to regret a thing.

Her lips against his, and the words before - _I lied about who I was, but I never lied about what I felt -_ are the truest things they’ve ever shared. Yes, the timing could have been better, Maker, he should have waited until they were alone, but when she stood and walked up to him…

For whatever reason, she’s deemed him worthy of a second chance, at both life and with _her_ , and Blackwall doesn’t want to waste a moment. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he stares at the ground, trying to ignore everyone gawking at him.

There’s a tug on his elbow and he looks down to see his lady at his side. With a tilt of her head, she silently asks him to follow. Blackwall does without question, glad to leave the heavy gaze of all the onlookers. His first few steps as a free man feel strange; the deeds of his past still weigh him down, he suspects they always will. Then again, he’s been living so long with a noose around his neck, waiting to be strung up for his crimes, that he doesn’t quite know what to do with freedom.

Freedom is not absolution. Blackwall knows no matter how hard he tries, it will never make up for what he did. There’s an odd sense of peace in that, in understanding that the rest of his days will be spent atoning for his crimes. He will never cross some imaginary line which will tell him: _lay down your burden, you have finally done enough_.

His lady brings him to Josephine’s office, empty save the two of them. And once the door shuts behind them, it’s mercifully quiet, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace. Blackwall runs his hand over his face, trying to figure out exactly what to say, find some words to make this right. Because frankly, right now, he doesn’t have a fucking clue.

But he needs to say _something_ , so he takes a breath and wets his lips. “I suppose thanks are in order, my lady.”

She frowns at his words and he doesn’t blame her. There’s something halting about his tone, like an actor not quite remembering his lines. And just like that, he sees her shoulders hunch a bit more, thanks to the extra weight he’s burdened her with.

“We’re not in public,” she says softly, looking into the fire as she wraps her arms around herself. “You don’t need to be formal.”

With a start, Blackwall realizes he called her _my lady_ without thinking. He hasn’t called her _my lady_ in private since their first few nights together, when Blackwall worked up the nerve to ask if he could give her a pet name. And then he tries to figure out exactly when in the past six weeks she stopped being _Bethroot_ in his head and instead went back to being his lady, a title for someone he has no right to call his.

“And besides,” his lady - _Bethroot -_ says, her eyes not leaving the fire, “you don’t owe me anything.” She looks up at him then, and the bags under her eyes are even more apparent. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then closes it again. “I don’t want to talk here, not when anyone could come in. 

Blackwall grunts in agreement; their relationship’s been in the public eye enough today.

“I have a lot of work I need to get done,” Bethroot says with a slight sigh, and Blackwall’s heart stutters at the apparent dismissal. But then she looks up at him and adds, “But I have time to walk you to your quarters.”

The day after she returns to Skyhold is always the busiest for her, with reports to read and meetings to attend. Before he left, Blackwall was used to not seeing her for a day or two after they returned from their travels. He’d work on his own tasks, full of pride he had no right to, that the woman he loved did everything she could to save Thedas. And while he might miss her during that time, he wouldn’t want her to change any of that just for the likes of him. The Inquisition is more important than just one man.

Especially when that man is Thom Rainier.

The freedom he’s been given starts to feel a bit overwhelming. Where exactly can he go besides his quarters? It seems like the only safe place at the moment, especially when he considers the small amount of sleep he had last night, worrying over the Judgment ahead. He thinks of the thick straw mattress in his quarters. Having room to stretch out seems like a luxury after the places he’s slept over the past six weeks. “I wouldn’t mind the rest,” Blackwall admits, hearing the weariness in his voice.

She takes him through the lower level of Skyhold, where they have the least chance of running into anyone other than servants. Blackwall hasn’t been down here often, preferring to be outdoors whenever possible. It’s peaceful down here, he realizes, and tucks away the thought, knowing he’ll need a place to- well, hide is the first word which comes to mind, and he supposes it’s appropriate. But he can’t hide forever and he has a feeling that even if he wanted to, Bethroot wouldn’t let him.

They walk side by side, but something’s missing between them now, something simply feels off. _Before_ , when walking through Skyhold, they’d hold hands or he’d have his arm around her shoulder. Even though he almost aches to feel her small hand in his, the last thing he wants to do is assume. Best to let her make that decision, when she’s ready. Bethroot makes no move to step closer to him as they walk, putting her hands deep into her trouser pockets instead. Even without the closeness, the walk is a comfortable one, the silence between them feels natural.

Just before they head outside, she turns and looks up at him. “We’re leaving for the Fallow Mire in eight days,” she says. “Do you think you will be ready by then?”

She still trusts him, Blackwall realizes, somewhat in amazement. After all he’s done, she still trusts him with her life, to keep her safe in the field. He blows air through his lips and he thinks about all the wasted time in a cell these past six weeks. Even with his own attempts at calisthenics while in prison, he’s woefully out of shape, having lost almost half a stone. He can do a lot in eight days, and he feels a bit lighter knowing he'll have a goal to work towards. “I’ll be ready, my lady,” he says.

Hurt flashes across her face, so he starts to say something, anything, but Bethroot holds up her hand. “It’s okay.” But Blackwall can tell by the lingering pain in her eyes that it’s not. “I’m just glad you’ll be ready. I… I missed you out there.”

His stomach clenches at the sadness in her voice. Maker, Blackwall told her he didn’t know how to be with her as Thom Rainier. And this is worse, not having the first fucking clue how to fix a relationship as Thom Rainier.

He can think of only one way to respond: with the truth. “I missed you, too.”

She smiles up at him, but there’s a bitterness to her smile, something he’s never seen before, as she turns and opens the door. The smile confuses him, until he realizes: what right did he have to miss her, when he’s the one who _left?_

#

It’s like Thom told her in the tavern the night before he left: everything seemed clear then. Less than an hour ago, when Bethroot looked up at him after he told everyone in the main hall how he loved her, everything did seem clear.

Now, as they walk outside on the way to his quarters, her stomach is muddled and in knots and she doesn’t have the slightest idea what to say. Silent prayers to the Ancestors run through her head as she searches for the right words.

The spoken word is her _lifeblood_ ; she has never been left wordless. Bethroot dined with royalty in Orzammar and danced with a Grand Duchess in the Winter Palace. Yet here she is, walking into Thom’s quarters without a word to say to the man she loves. So she leans against the door, hands splayed against the wood, and watches Thom. He sits down in a chair, forearms on his knees, not even glancing her way.

He looks broken.

The thought terrifies her, a dank sort of terror that spreads throughout her veins. In her heart, Bethroot understands Blackwall is gone and will never return. But she thought the man who took his place, Thom Rainier, a man willing to stand in front of a hundred people and declare his love for her, would at least be able to look her in the eye.

She takes a step toward this new man and her heart flutters, as if it can’t decide the rhythm in which to beat, so tries all of them at once. Instead of looking up at her, Thom places his head in his hands and Bethroot doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so defeated.

The silence between them is stifling now and Bethroot knows it’s up to her to find the words. She _always_ finds the words. But none show. And then her throat constricts, and she finds herself getting angry. Why should she be the one who needs to fix things? Thom’s the one who left _her._

The curve of his shoulders tell her he’s expecting her anger, might even welcome it, and Ancestors, it would be so easy to give in. To yell and scream and stomp her feet. But what good would that do her in the end? Nothing except a hoarse throat.

So, she pushes his hands away, climbing up onto his lap, and simple words she’s said a dozen times slip out of her mouth. “You’re much more comfortable than a wooden chair.” But instead of his usual response, a smile, Thom pulls her to him, holding her tight, almost too tight, but she doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t let go.

This is not the time for serious discussion, Bethroot decides as she tucks her head under Thom’s chin. The binding between them is too raw, too fragile, too close to shattering if stretched the wrong direction.

_Honesty_ , she thinks. She’ll start with honesty. “I’m not sure what to say,” Bethroot says quietly, enjoying just how _solid_ he feels next to her and the way his beard tickles her skin. It’s been six weeks, six long weeks, since she’s been held like this, and she wills away a sudden surge of desire. She’s missed this more than she cares to admit. They need a bit time, she thinks, before she’ll welcome him into her bed again. But not _too_ long, Bethroot decides, as she tries to ignore the dull ache between her legs.

“I don’t either,” Thom says, and Bethroot hopes that’s a start. At least they’re both admitting they’ve no idea what to say. His hand rests on her hip and, just as she thinks how warm his palm is, his brow furrows. There’s real concern in his voice when he adds, “When was the last time you ate?”

Bethroot breathes sharply through her nose. She’s not been eating as much as she should and doesn’t need to be reminded. “I’ve been eating, honest. I just-”

“You need to take care of yourself. I’m not worth-”

“Stop,” Bethroot says, her voice firm. How many times has he finished that sentence in the past year and how many times did she let him, with only a shake of her head to counter the thought? It’s been exhausting, sometimes, being in a relationship with someone who doesn’t think they belong in one. But no more. She won’t accept this any longer. “Just stop.”

She turns so she’s straddling him on the chair. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but she needs to look him right in the eye for this. He truly meets her gaze then, for the first time since Judgment this morning, and she swallows, having forgotten how blue his eyes are.

“You say that like you have no idea just how sodding important you are to me. And if you don’t know, that’s my fault.”

Thom sighs, a rumble deep in his chest, and Bethroot feels his fingers dig into the flesh at her waist. There’s a sense of mourning and of endings in his voice when he answers. “I know you loved Blackwall. I never doubted that.”

The past tense feels like a vice clamped down around her heart. “I love _you_ ,” she whispers. The words are almost a balm; it had been so long, too long, since she said them out loud. “I don’t care what your name is, if it’s Blackwall or Thom Rainier or anything else. I love the man in front of me.”

He lowers his head, so that his chin almost touches his chest. His eyes look so pained, she wonders how she could have not realized how much he hurt before this. Bethroot won’t make that mistake again.

“I meant what I said the night before you left,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m here for you, no matter what comes. Of course, I didn’t expect you to put those words to the test so quickly.”

She watches as his eyes widen, like he can’t believe what she just said. Then, with a shake of the head, Thom lets out a chuckle and relief washes over her. A chuckle is a million times better than the defeated man Bethroot saw when they walked inside his room.

“I love you, too,” he says, soft enough she can barely make out the words. But she does, and her heart thrills to hear them like it always has, since the first time he said them after Adamant.

Sitting in his lap with his arms around her, makes Bethroot realize just how weary she is. Exhaustion weighs her down, and this is a conversation they need to have when she doesn’t have a long day before her. So she sits up straight, resting her hand on Thom’s shoulders. “I know we have a lot to talk about,” she says, her voice quiet.

“Of course-”

“Because even though I love you, I’m absolutely furious with you,” Bethroot says, hearing a hint of steel in her voice. Which is the absolute truth. She has a dozen of questions she wants answered, but not on his first day of freedom, and not when she can barely keep her eyes open.

Thom swallows loudly, before sitting up straight and sliding his hands up from her ass to her waist. “You have every right to be,” he says with a nod.

“Thank you,” she whispers, pleased he accepts her anger.

Her eyes close briefly as she rests against him, needing to find the energy to move on with her day. “I have a lot to do today,” she says, thinking of the meeting she had with Josephine before Thom’s Judgment. “And then I need a good night’s sleep. So do you, from the looks of it.” She cups his cheek with her hand, the softness of his beard feeling so damn right under her palms. “Why don’t we talk tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” he asks, and she hears relief and fear all mixed up together in his voice. “Whatever you like.”

She slips off his lap while reaching out to grab his gloved hand. Before she can stop herself, she presses her lips against the heel of his palm, wishing he removed his gloves, so she could feel the hair on the back of his hands and the calluses on his fingers. “Tomorrow,” she says, knowing and not caring that he can hear the longing in the word.

Before she can say anything more, Bethroot turns and walks out the door, trying to find the strength to somehow get through the day.


	2. Day Two

**DAY TWO**

“What was the worst of it?”

Leaning back in her chair, she considers Thom’s question. Bethroot discards a card from her deck and picks up one more. She’s the one who arrived at his quarters armed with a pack of playing cards.

It’s been a long, tiring day. While she knows, she _knows_ , they need to discuss things, Bethroot feels wrung out and empty and her words don’t want to cooperate. Staring at each other with no idea of what to say won’t help either of them. At least with cards, there’s always _something_ to say.

Across the table, Thom fidgets a bit with his cards, staring at them as if they hold the meaning of the universe as he waits for her answer. She might as well tell him the truth; there’s no point of building up their relationship again with deception.

“I can almost understand the lies,” she says, waving her hand over the cards so he knows her turn is done. He opens his mouth to say something but Bethroot continues, “Really, I can. Up until the Conclave, when I was out on a job, I told people my name was Malika, not Bethroot. Too memorable of a name.” Her fingers trace the scar on her cheek. “And I’ve had to live on the run more than once.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Thom says, his voice thoughtful as he puts down a serpent card before picking up another.

“It’s not like you didn’t try to stay away,” Bethroot says quietly. “You did. I just didn’t let you. If you hadn’t shown up in my bedroom that night, I would have sought you out.” She looks at her hand. It’s awful, but she’s never been good at Wicked Grace. She puts her cards on the table, face down, and looks at Thom. “So I understand all that. But what I don’t understand, what I will never understand, is how you could have left me naked in the stables.”

Thom flinches at her words, and all but withers in front of her, running a hand over his face. He doesn’t answer. Bethroot stares at him. She’s done with non-answers and disappointment. How many questions has she asked only to receive platitudes or silence? No more.

“I made so many excuses for you in my head,” Bethroot says, letting a challenge into her voice. “But none of them make sense. How could you-”

“I had a blanket in my fucking hands.”

The pain in Thom’s voice cuts through her. She almost wants to recoil, brush away the question and pretend she never asked, but she won’t do that again. She deserves an answer, so she will wait until he provides her one, especially to this question. “A blanket?”

He picks up his cards and starts to shuffle. Prison must have been torture for him, she realizes, all that standing around, not being able to _do_ anything. “You fell asleep right away like always. I got dressed and left the badge next to you,” Thom says, his voice deep as thunder. “I walked over to that pile of stable blankets, you know the one.” Bethroot nods, confirming. “And I turned and looked at you… I knew, I bloody knew…”

She picks up a card - a knight - and struggles to think how it might help her hand. Perhaps she’ll have use for it later, so she tucks it in with the other cards and discards a serpent. Feeling a twitch in her right shoulder, Bethroot rolls them both, trying to get some of the growing tension to leave her back. One day she won’t even bother. Her whole life has been nothing _but_ tension since the moment she stepped into the Conclave. “Knew what?”

“If I took one step back towards you, I’d never be able to leave,” Thom says, disgust threading his voice. “I would have woken you up and we would have gone to my quarters.”

“And Mornay would have died.” It’s hard enough to accept that the man in front of her let a few of his subordinates die for him all those years ago. Harder now to think a blanket might have been the difference between life and death for Mornay. Bethroot stares at her cards. She’s not pleased with the hand, so she picks one up from the pile. It’s a song, giving her a pair. “Would you have blamed me if he died?” she asks softly.

“Do you see now what a bloody bastard I can be?” Thom asks, grabbing a card from the pile with so much force it almost tears. “I might have. You would have been completely blameless, yet I would have found you at fault.”

Bethroot sits with her hands in her lap, heart stammering. Her cheeks feel flush, but not the good sort of flush she’s come to associate being around this man. She thinks of when they first met - _thieves are made, not born -_ and wonders if Thom truly believes that. Or if it was something Blackwall would only say. There are differences between Blackwall and Thom, differences which might take her months to learn and a lifetime to understand, if she ever does at all. Strange to think that two months ago she thought she only had a few years to discover his secrets, when the truth is that she has all the time in the world. Though with lives like theirs, life could demand its final payment at any moment. It isn’t wise to take a single day for granted.

“Tell me no one saw you, at least,” Thom says, putting his cards face down on the table before placing his elbows on his thighs and head in his hands. “You sleep like the dead.”

“A noise woke me in the middle of the night,” Bethroot tells him. “I dressed once I woke, but waited in the stables until morning. At first, I thought maybe you just went to take a piss. I didn’t see your note until later in the day.”

Bethroot tries not to think too much of the confusion she felt that night, followed by the worry when he never returned. Not to mention the shame of being naked in the stables and alone. What if someone _had_ seen her? How could she have dealt with that on top of everything else? She didn’t mean to fall asleep that night but, when he whispered, “Go ahead and close your eyes, Bethy. I’ll be here,” she trusted without question that he would.

Silence stretches between them. Bethroot looks at the pile of cards, wondering how close they are to ending the hand, how close they are to the Angel of Death card. There aren’t many cards left. The next card she grabs is another knight, and she decides not to discard the pair for now, putting down a dagger instead. “So, what was the worst of it?” she asks.

Thom chuckles mirthlessly, then leans back in his chair. There’s a haunted look in his eyes that tears at Bethroot’s heart. The enormity of the question, she decides, almost doesn’t seem fair. He’s been living and breathing the very worst of it for more than seven years.

“Where do I start?” he asks. “The Spymaster probably told you all this, but my men, the ones who were caught and killed…” He takes a breath and words tumble out of his mouth, faster than Bethroot’s heard him speak before. “Yount was Ferelden. She didn’t fight with her daggers, she fucking danced. Beautiful to watch. Trembley used a two-handed hammer. I’d catch their attention and he’d bash them from behind. And Nia was from Rivain; his mother was a seer. He used to tell everyone he had the gift, too. For the right price, he’d tell anyone their future.”

He looks drained, having spoken their names, and Bethroot reaches across the table and places her hand on his. Thom grips her hand, hard enough to be uncomfortable, but Bethroot doesn’t say a word; it feels _good_ to have her hand surrounded by his again. “They were part of my elite squad. I led a company, but those six - Mornay, Trembley, Paquet, Yount, Nia and Roig - they were the ones I leaned on more than anyone,” he says. “Sort of how you lead armies, but rely on your inner circle. But afterward, the entire company was blamed, even when they had nothing to do with it.”

Over the past year, Bethroot held onto each nugget of information he gave her like a treasure. To hear a speech like that, to have him offer her details and names, at first seems like a gift. But she’s loved this man since Haven. She’s ready for answers.

Thom breathes in deeply and picks up a card. He looks at it for just a moment, before shaking his head and throwing down the Angel of Death card. “Of course,” he says, almost bitterly. “Let’s see who’s won.”

“I’ve never been good at Wicked Grace,” Bethroot says with a sigh. He shows three songs and two daggers, which easily beat her hand of two knights, two songs and a dagger. She tends to go for the high-risk hands, and more often than not, her strategy lets her down.

A thoughtful look crosses Thom’s face. “Do you know how to play Chanson d’Argent?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Popular in the Imperial Army,” Thom says, gathering all the playing cards on the table. “Can’t tell you how many hours of my life I’ve wasted playing the game while waiting around on watch or in camp.” He starts dealing and the cards look small in his hands, but there’s a slight smile on his face when he catches her eye. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”

Bethroot finds herself smiling back, ready to learn anything Thom is willing to share. “I’d like that.”

#

To Blackwall’s surprise, she’s a natural at the game. “You win again,” he says, catching the words _my lady_ before they roll off his tongue.

“I had a good teacher,” Bethroot says with a grin, raising her arms above her head and stretching.

Blackwall turns his head, so as not to stare. The last thing he needs is to get ideas in his head. Who knows when she’ll be ready to have him in her bed again? Her face scrunches up in pain as she rolls her shoulder. She’s favored that shoulder a few times tonight and, just as he’s about to ask the obvious question - _is your shoulder bothering you? -_ the bells ring in the courtyard, signaling a change of watch.

“Oh, sod it,” Bethroot mutters under her breath. “How is it midnight already?”

He understands the sentiment. Maybe it’s the novelty of his freedom, but the entire day passed by quickly. He’s not quite ready to say goodnight, then again, he never is with her. “I can walk you back to your quarters, if you’d like,” Blackwall says, hearing the uncertainty in his voice.

Bethroot looks down at her hands and, thanks to the small furrow in her brow, he can tell she’s making a decision. A quick one, because then she looks up at him and says, her voice quiet and tentative, “Could I just stay here with you? I think I’d sleep better if we were in the same bed. Unless you’d rather be alone.”

“I’d rather have you near,” he says, far too quickly, and he’s ready to wince at the eagerness he hears in his voice. Nothing will happen if they share a bed, he’s sure of it; they’ve not even kissed since his Judgment, but he’d rather have her close.

“Good,” Bethroot says, and her voice almost cracks in relief. “The thought of going up all those stairs to my room had me ready to cry.”

Blackwall chuckles just a bit, thinking of how many times they’ve walked up those stairs together.

“Do you have anything I could sleep in?” she asks as she stands up, before walking over to the bed.

The beating of his heart grows louder as he heads to the dresser. Opening the middle drawer where his undershirts should be, he sees small clothes instead. Nothing is where it belongs, no doubt the result of the Spymaster sending someone to search his room. That’s how they found him, Sera told him. One traitorous piece of parchment left out in the open gave Lady Leliana all the tools needed to find him. It seems too obvious now, and part of him wonders if he hadn’t destroyed the report because he wanted his lady to follow.

The bottom drawer holds the bounty he seeks: a nightshirt for him and a tight-fitting undershirt for her. It’ll still be too big for her, but it’s all he can offer at the moment. The linen nightclothes in his hands gives Blackwall an idea of the gulf between them, an emptiness which needs to be filled. They’ve never slept in his bed wearing night clothes before, preferring to sleep naked, letting their hands wander until they fell asleep.

Already he misses the intimacy, aches to hold her in his arms as he buries his face in the crook of her neck. It’s something he never really had in his life. Before Bethroot, he rarely ever bothered to stay the night and, if he did, letting a woman fall asleep in his arms would never be on the table, lest wrong ideas be given.

He stands, ignoring the way his bad knee creaks, and says, “This will work, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she says, taking the shirt from his hands, their fingers not even brushing.

Blackwall nods before taking a few steps into the corner to change, his back towards Bethroot. There are still so many words that need to be spoken between them. He’s not sure even where to begin, but maybe they can worry about that in the morning, after they’ve had a good night’s sleep.

A silence he’s not used to - not with Bethroot around - dominates the room; the only sound is of them undressing. He can picture the latches and buckles on her outfit; even after all this time, Blackwall thinks he could still undress her with his eyes closed.

When he’s set for bed, he turns and looks at Bethroot, who sits with her back towards him, only in her breast band and trousers. His eyes roam over her hips and waist until he notices the injuries. Injuries he knows she didn’t have the night before he left for Orlais. There’s a jagged cut near her right shoulder, clearly from a dagger. Even from this distance, Blackwall can tell it needs cleaning. A purple-brown bruise the size of his fist sits at the small of her back and Blackwall doesn’t even want to think of the force needed to leave that sort of mark on her.

“Your back,” he says, ignoring the worry in his voice as he takes a step closer to her.

“I’m fine,” she tells him wearily, looking at him from over her shoulder. “Really, I am. I’ll get the shoulder looked at tomorrow.”

“Let me clean the cut for you, at least,” Blackwall says, hoping the few potions and salves he kept in his quarters haven’t been taken by the Spymaster. This, dealing with an injury, he can do. It’s something he can help mend. He might not be able to fix everything between them right now, but he can clean a cut.

Thankfully, the salve hasn’t been removed from the small commode. Bethroot makes no protest as he sits right next to her - their hips and thighs touching - both of them still and hardly breathing. When she twists her torso slightly, she places a hand on his knee - bare, thanks to his nightshirt. He has to close his eyes to calm himself; he missed her so fucking much.

“Thank you,” Bethroot says quietly.

“You’ll sleep better,” Blackwall says, pouring the injury potion onto a clean rag. She winces sharply at the first touch, digging her fingers into his knee. Some of Solas’ work is clearly visible, but it’s been at least forty-eight hours since it’s been cleaned. Once the gash is clean, Blackwall spreads a bit of warming salve on his fingertips. As he rubs the salve onto the bruise, he wonders why she doesn’t say anything. She shouldn’t have to, though, should she? It’s because of him this all started, leaving without a word, and lying through his teeth before that. 

He puts the corks back into the vials as slowly as possible, not wanting to move, wanting simply to be near. “How were you hurt?” he asks, finding an excuse not to move, at least for a few moments more.

Pointing at her shoulder, she tells him “Red Templar Stalker.” Then, gesturing to her lower back, she adds, “Venatori Brute. There was a lot of fighting. We were in the Storm Coast for ten days.”

And he wasn’t there to protect her. Guilt ties up his stomach as he twists the cork in the vial over and over. How many times a man can apologize before the words lose their meaning?

Her face is turned away from him now, but he still catches a glimpse of a frown. His throat catches as Blackwall realizes they’re not out of danger yet. He might as well told all of Thedas he loves her yesterday, thanks to how fast gossip travels, but without effort, they’ll surely bleed out. And if he learned anything in his time in prison, _he cannot lose her_.

Thom Rainier wouldn’t bother, always looking for the next woman, the next conquest. That bastard would never be willing to put in the work to mend a relationship. Looking for shortcuts, looking for an easier way, it’s what he’d done his whole life. If Blackwall goes back to that mindset, they’ll be done for, he’s sure of it.

As carefully as he can, Blackwall puts his arm around her shoulder, careful not to touch the stab wound. He’s not backing down without a fight. He will fight the Fade and the Void if he must for her.

Bethroot relaxes against him at once and his eyes close, having her loose in his arms, and feeling her head next to his shoulder. For a moment, it almost feels like before. But it’s not before and can never be. More importantly, Blackwall doesn’t want it to be.

Thinking back to the first time they went to the Storm Coast, Blackwall remembers what he told her about the Blades of Hessarian, how they need to find a better path. That’s _exactly_ what he and Bethroot need: a better path.

Maker knows he’ll do what he can to find it.


	3. Day Three

**DAY THREE**

All Bethroot needs to do is move her hand a few inches to the left and her fingers will brush his.

It would be so comforting to hold his hand again, to feel his larger fingers entwined with hers. But they’re in public and, even up on the ramparts where only the occasional guard might see them, she’s not ready to feed the rumor mill any more than she has. Already there’s talk how she was seen leaving Thom’s quarters this morning.

Not that sharing a bed last night with Thom led to anything worth gossiping about. They didn't touch once during the night. Bethroot climbed into bed first and slept with her back to him, covers over her head. But she didn’t wake up once for the first time in weeks and, when she looked into a mirror this morning, the shadows under her eyes weren’t quite as pronounced.

“It’s nice up here,” Bethroot says, simply to make conversation, but it’s true. Night has fallen and Skyhold is lit up by lanterns. There are no clouds tonight and the stars seemingly go on forever. She doesn’t think about her brethren in Orzammar often, but on nights like this, she wishes they had some idea what they’re missing. Even the beauty of the stone underground can’t compare to _this._

Thom says nothing in response, which she expects. Sometimes she just feels the need to fill a silence with words that don’t even matter. He’s never been like that, always content to simply be, as long as they were together. Her chattering, telling him all about the little details of her day, never seemed to bother him, though.

She misses that. She misses telling him things and not being afraid to ask for an opinion, because he always had one, if she wanted to hear it. Bethroot always did. At the time, she wondered why he never offered them freely, making her draw them out of him instead.

She understands now, of course. Opinions say a lot about a person and Thom Rainier clearly didn’t want anyone knowing too much about him. Not even her.

They reach the Mage Tower and Bethroot can hear laughter and singing inside. “They must be having a celebration,” she says, feeling almost wistful. _Before_ she would have had no problem walking inside, sure of her welcome and joining in on the fun. She’s not sure of how Thom would be received, so it’s best to turn around and not disturb anyone within. As they start walking again, they pass a guard who refuses to look either one of them in the eye.

He’s not the first. Walking through the courtyard this morning, instead of everyone she met nodding as she passed, saying “Your Worship” or “Inquisitor,” some avoided her gaze altogether.

And some looked at her with anger blaring in their eyes.

Sitting on her throne the other day, Bethroot had no idea just how divisive her Judgment of Thom Rainier would be. Leliana’s told her some of the scuttlebutt. The Orlesian soldiers stationed at Skyhold are furious. The Wardens demand a full report of what happened to the original Blackwall. Even the Inquisition soldiers aren’t too pleased. Bethroot tries not to worry and tries to be the same leader she was before. It’s hard, though, knowing she’s lost standing with some of her soldiers.

Any day now, Josephine expects an official response - negative, what else could it be? - from the qunari about the destruction of their dreadnought and Orlais will be expecting their first payment from recruiting. Bethroot closes her eyes, just for a moment, and wonders if she’ll ever do anything right again.

When her eyes open again, she sees Thom leaning against the ramparts, looking down at the courtyard. It’s peaceful, this time of night. No merchants or members of the Inquisition running back and forth. Sometimes, as she walked through the courtyard at its busiest time during the day, Bethroot would have a hard time believing she helped bring it all about, that they’re all here because they believe in the Inquisition’s cause.

In one month’s time, they will have been in Skyhold for a year. Before this all began, Josephine hoped to plan a festival based on the Grand Tourney of the Free Marches to celebrate. Bethroot stalled at the time, thinking the time and gold could be better spent. But perhaps the ambassador is right, she thinks, picturing the courtyard dressed up for a festival. Would be quite the sight.

He’s staring at something intently, so Bethroot goes to stand next to him, standing on her tiptoes so she can see, too. “Do you see that Orlesian soldier, there?” Thom asks quietly. “The one with the plumes in the back of his mask?”

“Sure,” Bethroot says, watching the group of soldiers. They talk enthusiastically among each other, often using their hands to speak. Perhaps that’s needed when you can’t see the other person’s face.

“That’s the same mask I wore as a captain in the army,” he says with a shudder. “Hated every moment of it, but I had to wear it every bloody day. Took it off in the evenings, though, when I’d share pints with my men.”

“How in the world did you fight wearing that?” she asks, trying to wrap her head around what he is telling her. She simply can’t picture it. Or perhaps she doesn’t want to. Being in love with Thom Rainier is one thing. Loving Captain Thom Rainier, formerly of the Orlesian Army, feels very different.

“You don’t,” Thom says, crossing his arms over his chest. “We all took them off to spar or for any serious battles. They’re just for show. Such a fucking waste.”

“Were you in any serious battles?” she asks, thinking of some of the talks she’s overheard him have with Solas. _You live and breathe war. You understand it. It is home to you._

His nod is curt and Bethroot can’t help noticing how his jaw clenches at the question, but he says nothing more and she doesn’t feel like she should press. Not this question, at least. She wonders if it will always seem so one-sided, where she is parched with all of her questions, and he the oasis with the answers.

It doesn’t seem _fair_ , but only a few day have passed. They’d gotten into habits, before he left, where she learned not to ask questions, because she tired of him never answering. Breaking the habit of not asking questions will take some time. Hopefully it won’t take him long to learn to start answering them.

She studies the officers and realizes something. “Your gambeson looks similar to theirs,” she says. At the sheepish look on his face, Bethroot adds, “Is it the same?”

“Didn’t have much choice,” Thom says, his voice dull. “I hardly had any gold once the truth was discovered and good gambesons are expensive. So I ripped off the embellishments and had it dyed.” He chuckles slightly and there’s a dark edge to his laugh. “Now I’m just used to it. Wouldn’t wear it in battle any longer, though. I’ve had to patch it up too many times.”

Bethroot starts to walk again, thinking of all the chilly mornings she’s wrapped herself up in his gambeson, always glad it smelled like him. “Well, it’s certainly comfortable,” she says with a small smile.

“That it is,” Thom says, matching her pace easily. She knows he can walk faster, but he’s never once made Bethroot feel like she’s slowing him down.

Another silence falls and this time Bethroot tries to preserve it, ignoring all the silly comments she thinks to make. About the weather, about the people in the courtyard, about the food they ate at dinner. When they reach the corridor where Thom’s quarters are located they both stop, almost at the same time. She looks up at him, and asks, “Can I stay with you again tonight?”

He nods and she sees how his eyes soften. Ancestors, it’s not fair to want him as much as she does, yet not feel ready to have sex with him. Even so, she’d still like a bit more than what they’ve shared since his Judgment. So she moves her hand just a few inches to the left, brushing her fingers against his.

And they walk into his quarters hand in hand.

# 

“You would have rather died than tell me the truth.”

Blackwall hears the anger behind her words and tries to think of some way to make Bethroot understand. He can think of none, so he reaches for her hand, but isn’t surprised when she sits up in bed a moment later.

The darkness of his quarters feels like it’s closing in on him, too reminiscent of his time in prison, so he sits up himself, swinging his legs over side of the bed. Walking over to the commode, he lights a candle and brings it over to the table by his bed, glad the flame will keep the sharp corners of the room at bay. She’s sitting up now, leaning against the headboard and looking slightly ridiculous in his old shirt, it being far too big on her. Even with the extra fabric, he can see the soft curve of her breasts and immediately pushes those thoughts away.

Maker, he misses her touch. More than six weeks have passed since they’ve been together. Sharing a bed these past two nights has led to little more than hand holding. Blackwall’s content to wait until they stand on firmer ground, which the fierceness on her face and in voice tell him they clearly are not.

He’s been waiting for this very question, wondering when she’d ask, sure she would at some point. Her face demands an answer and he's promised himself he will no longer lie to her, so he confronts one of the most uncomfortable truths he’s ever known. Looking Bethroot straight in the eye, Blackwall says, his voice full of sorrow, “Yes.”

Bethroot brings her knees up to her chest, burying her head in her arms, as closed off as he’s ever seen. He sits down on the bed near her, but gives her plenty of room. He aches to hold her, or at least be closer, maybe a hand on her shoulder or knee, but he doubts his touch would be welcome right now.

“I hoped you’d think I went off to my Calling.”

Her head lifts then and she glares at him. Blackwall accepts her gaze and meets it head on before she finally rests the back of her head against the headboard. Staring at the ceiling, her voice dull, she says, “You promised me you would tell me when that happened.”

“I said a lot of things,” he says darkly.

“Less than you think,” she says, accusation lacing her words. “You wouldn’t even tell me your sodding given name.” She shakes her head and Blackwall cringes, remembering the one time she asked and how he shot her down. For a brief moment, he thought of telling her his name, just that it was Thom, but the idea of her calling him that practically made him ill then. It almost makes him ill now. “I kept thinking to myself, maybe someday he’ll trust me enough-”

“I trust you more than anyone in the world-”

“How can you honestly look at me with a straight face and say that?” Bethroot demands.

She starts to crawl to the end of the bed, presumably so she doesn’t have to sit next to him any longer. He saves her the trouble, standing up and marching to one of the wooden chairs. With a huff, Bethroot gets out of bed anyway, going to the table and pouring a glass of water. And like she’s always done since her first visit to his quarters, she offers the glass to him first.

Blackwall takes a sip before handing the glass back to her, and again their fingers barely touch. He wonders if they’ll ever find that again, when their fingers would simply linger together because they could. “I meant what I said,” he tells her.

With the force she uses to put the glass on the side table of the bed, he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter. Blackwall braces himself for the onslaught. “Then why couldn’t you tell me?” she says, her voice louder than he ever heard. Bethroot’s the type who simply speaks and people listen, having no need to raise her voice. To hear her voice raised like this hurts more than he cares to admit. “You had to know I would find out. We have agents in Val Royeaux, for sod’s sake, and how do you think I’d-”

And he snaps.

“Because this wasn’t about you, Bethy,” he says, his voice rough. Somewhere in the back of his head Blackwall realizes he finally called her his pet name. Bethroot’s face softens, realizing it, too, but the slight smile on her lips only makes him more upset. “This was about me. Since I’ve been back, all we’ve talked about it how my choice affected _you_. What about me? I had every right to die in that prison because that’s what I bloody wanted and you took that away from me.” The sudden burst of anger coiling inside him seems ready to strangle him.

He looks at Bethroot, who sits at the edge of the bed, her feet not touching the floor, with her hands folded demurely in her lap. Tears are threatening to spill from her eyes, but she stares at him with an intensity that’s startles him. “When we go to the Fallow Mire next week, am I going to be lighting your funeral pyre?” she asks, and he flinches, feeling the sting of her words. “Is that what you’re telling me? Do you still want to die?”

“I wanted peace,” he says, and even he can hear the mourning in his voice.

At his words, Bethroot covers her hand with her mouth, her eyes wide. It’s not the reaction be he expected at all, so he asks, “Bethy?”

She shakes her head quickly, like she’s trying to clear something from her mind. “In Redcliffe, in that dark future, you told me ‘the dead should rest in peace.’ Is that what you think?” she asks. “That death leads to peace?”

Blackwall leans forward in the chair, putting his head in his hands as he considers her question. Is that what he thinks? He’s not sure if he does, picturing the ghosts of the Callier children watching and judging him. If they concerned themselves with him at all, surely they’re not at peace yet. The thought saddens him. If anyone deserves peace, it’s those four children.

“I wanted my death to _mean_ something,” Blackwall says, not looking up. “If my death allowed Mornay and the others still in hiding to go free, then it was worth it.”

He can hear the soft shuffle of her feet as she walks towards him, but she doesn’t climb into his lap like he expects. She instead places the palm of her hand on the back of his neck. Just the sensation of her skin against his is comforting and he takes a few steadying breaths.

“This isn’t peace. This is…”

He’s not sure how to continue the thought or if he even should. Looking at her, the circles under her eyes and breasts that aren’t quite as round, he’s hurt her enough, more than anyone should endure at the hands of another. Yet, here she is: running her fingers through his hair with one hand on his shoulder, gripping as if she never wants to let him go.

“What is it?” she prompts softly, with no trace of anger.

Blackwall leans back in the chair and sighs all the way down to his toes. “This is the Void,” he whispers and the room is so quiet he can hear each breath they take. “I thought I had changed. But I haven’t. Not a bit. I’m still that fucking coward, closing the door behind me when I should have saved the dog.”

“You went to save-”

“I’m a greedy bastard, Bethy,” he says, his tone flat as he stares straight ahead. Blackwall’s tried to do good, to be good, for more than five years now and look where it’s gotten him. “I should have told you. No, I should have never been with you in the first place. But I couldn’t stay away.” He looks at her then. The anger he felt just a few minutes ago has disappeared. It’s himself he’s angry with, not her. “I just wanted to die with you thinking I was a good man.”

Even before she starts speaking, he can hear the words on the tip of her tongue. “Don’t say it, please, don’t say it. We both know I’m not.”

“Do you remember what you told me in the Hinterlands?” Bethroot asks quietly. “You told me that being good is making a choice every day for the rest of your life. I still believe that.”

“I told you that?” Blackwall asks, trying to remember the conversation. He can picture her outburst, her guilt of killing so many Carta, people who once considered her a sister. But he doesn’t remember the exact words. “That almost sounds like decent advice.”

“Very much so. It’s guided me almost every day since,” she says. She slides her fingers underneath the collar of his nightshirt and squeezes his shoulder. Blackwall tries not to shiver, feeling her bare fingers against his skin. “I’m not overlooking your past, Thom. You did a horrible thing. But you’ve made that choice to be good every single day since I met you. And that’s what I see.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says, taking her hand off his shoulder and bringing it to his lips, earning a smile. “So we keep making the choice, together.”

“Exactly,” she says with a nod, cupping his cheek with her palm. “Now let’s get some sleep.”

Blackwall stands, and follows Bethroot into bed. And when he reaches for her, simply putting his arm around her waist, she does not push him away.


	4. Day Four

They wait for him behind the stables.

All Blackwall wants to do is take a piss before going back to his self-appointment chores. Four Orlesian soldiers stand waiting, arms crossed over their chests, trying to look intimidating. Too bad those bloody masks are anything but.

“Wondered about this,” Blackwall says quietly. “You represent them all? Or should I expect more visits?”

He tries to force himself to relax and not settle into a fighting stance as the highest ranking soldier practically struts up to him. The man doesn’t answer, of course, not wanting to give Blackwall anything that might be used to identify them later on. Blackwall tries to take stock of the soldiers - three men and one woman - using his old tricks, looking for loose threads or a scuff on a boot. Something that will allow him to identify them later.

Then Blackwall decides there’s no point. Who’s he going to tell? Best to get this over with.

His heart starts to race while waiting for the first blow. Thanks to his days as a mercenary and a worthless drunk, Blackwall is an expert at getting his ass handed to him. He knows how to protect the teeth he has left and how to position himself to make sure they stay away from vital organs 

The soldier slams his mask into Blackwall’s face and he can’t help but reel from the pain, feeling blood gush out of his nose and onto his mustache and beard. The lady soldier is next, shouldering him in the stomach while another kicks Blackwall’s legs out from underneath him. Blackwall lands on his bad knee with a grunt, feeling all the work he’s done training over the past few days slip through his fingers.

Part of him wants to cry out, let them know their brothers in Orlais already beat the shit out of him once, isn’t that enough? But he knows soldiers, _especially_ Orlesian soldiers, even after all this time. It will never be enough. He’ll never bleed enough blood or break enough bone to satisfy them. Even his death won’t be enough to stop the tales about Thom Rainier, Traitor to Orlais.

One soldier grabs his hair and yanks his head back as another punches him in the face, sure to leave him with a shiner in the morning. Maker, let this end soon, so he can go clean himself up before he sees Bethroot. The last thing she needs is to see him like this.

And because the Maker doesn’t seem to be on his side today, he hears Bethroot say, “Blackwall?” from inside the stable. Her voice stops the the soldiers at once and they scamper out from behind the stable. Small mercies, he thinks. Now if he could just wait until she thinks he’s not there, maybe he could put this behind him.

Blackwall drops on his hands, trying to catch his breath, but starts to dry heave instead. A moment later, he’s coughing up blood. He silently curses, knowing he’s got Bethroot’s attention from the sound of her footsteps.

He doesn’t bother to look up as he sees her feet in front of him. “Thom,” she says and he can hear the fear in her voice. He cringes and tries to tell himself it’s from the beating and not from hearing his real name from Bethroot’s lips. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Bethy,” Blackwall says with a groan. Putting his hand on Bethroot’s shoulder, he adds, “Help me sit up.”

She does without another word. Soon they’re sitting side by side, his arm around her shoulder for balance while he tries to catch his breath. Maker, even as beat up as he is, there’s something calming about having her near.

“Orlesians?” Bethroot asks quietly. “Or Grey Wardens?”

Leaning his head back against the stables, Blackwall sighs. He expected the Orlesians to come after him. Perhaps the Grey Wardens staying at Skyhold will, too. “What does it matter?” Blackwall asks. There’s a weariness in his voice, and he wonders if it will ever go away. He feels so fucking _old_ right now. “I’ve no right to defend myself.”

“You have _every_ right.” She shakes her head with a sigh. “I passed Judgment. You don’t see the mages going after Alexius. It’s not their right to punish you.” She looks up at him and the concern in her eyes is almost more than he can stand. He wonders if she truly believes that, that her word should be enough to convince everyone to leave him alone. They might respect her as Inquisitor, but hatred has ways of overpowering everything outside of its target. “Think you can make it into the stables? It will be easier to clean you up there.”

Blackwall nods. Give him a cup of water and an injury potion, and he’ll be right as rain. Didn’t even break a rib this time. He waits as Bethroot stands up, holding out both hands to him. Once he’s upright, it takes him a moment to get his bearings - he’s dizzier than he thought he’d be, perhaps he didn’t avoid a concussion, after all - but she’s there, right next to him, a solid weight to keep him standing.

He gingerly takes a few steps and is quite pleased that the pain in his knee is already dulled; there’s no cause for him to limp. Rolling his shoulders, Blackwall knows he’s had far, far, worse beatdowns in his life.

As they walk to the front of the stables, Blackwall silently hopes no one sees them. Perhaps he can get through this with no one being the wiser. But of course Master Dennet is there, tending to the horses, though he takes one look at them and leaves. Blackwall’s stomach churns; he thought they were on decent terms. The horsemaster even proudly showed him the latest addition to the stables the other day: a colt born while Blackwall was in prison.

He settles into the wooden chair next to the fire pit and leans back, feet stretched out in front of him. Maker, his head is pounding.

“I’ll be right back,” Bethroot says and she runs up the stairs to the loft.

Master Dennet returns then, holding a bucket of water. “Looks like you could use this,” he says. There’s no judgment in his voice, no pity. It’s exactly what Blackwall needs right now.

“Thank you,” Blackwall says.

Bethroot comes down the stairs, her arms full of clean rags and a few vials of potions. He has a sharp intake of breath when he thinks of the stash she raided. They placed a small wooden chest up in the loft, full of rags for cleaning themselves off after sex, a few injury potions in case they were rough with each other, and vials of oil he picked up in Val Royeaux months ago. “I was just about to fetch some water,” Bethroot says to Master Dennet. There’s something forced in her voice and Blackwall can’t even begin to wonder what she might be thinking. “Thank you.”

Dennet nods before walking out of the stables, leaving them alone. Blackwall’s grateful when Bethroot hands him an injury potion right away, which he drinks down in one gulp, feeling better at once. The taste of the potion is awful, like spoiled milk and mud, but he’s had to drink so many throughout his life that he hardly tastes it any more. The potion quickly does its work and already Blackwall feels more like himself again.

His eyes close as Bethroot takes a rag, dips it in the bucket of water, and slowly starts to wipe off his face. The water is warm - Dennet must have found a mage to heat it - and it doesn’t take long for her to work. The beating could have gone much worse.

But she’s quiet. Too quiet. Just as she about to dab his face with the rag again, he takes her hand and gives it a squeeze, silently asking what’s wrong.

Placing her other hand on the side of his neck, she says, “When you hurt, I hurt.”

Blackwall wets his lips, trying to accept what she says, but no understanding comes. “Thank you,” he says softly, not sure how else to respond to her words. Then as quickly as a snap of the fingers, the moment is over and she gets back to work.

As she cleans his face, getting out the blood in his beard and mustache, she asks him questions, questions about his life in the Imperial Army, perhaps trying to figure out the mindset of the other soldiers. And since he’ll not lie to her any longer, Blackwall will tell her everything he can.

#

The moment the question comes out of her mouth she regrets it. Why in ancestor’s name would she ask if he had a wife and child _now_? Why kick the man when he’s already down? Even with such an answer, an answer her heart secretly thrills to, she can still see the hurt in Thom’s eyes. His answer still doesn’t quell the doubts she feels.

Why _her?_ Out of all the women he carried on with - she’s heard more than enough rumors about Thom Rainier’s past to last a lifetime - why does he want to stay with her? Is it the mark? Being the Herald? What besides those things makes her special, makes her anything other than a dwarf with a criminal past, like most surface dwarves?

Instead of asking these questions, Bethroot places her hand on his forearm. “Thank you,” she says softly. He did answer her questions, even as she tried not to be resentful at his initial response. Owe you that much, indeed. She wipes his cheek one more time with the rag. Ten copper pieces he wouldn’t have told her about being beaten if she hadn’t come into the stables when she did. “There. I’ve done what I can.”

Thom nods and says, his voice terse, “Thank you.”

The hurt is still there, plain as day on his face, and she doesn’t think she can stand it any longer, so she picks up the rags and says, “I’ll just put these back.” Anxiety fills her belly as she starts up the stairs. Their relationship isn’t a trap she can make and remake, fiddling and perfecting to her heart’s content. She needs to stop treating it so.

As she gets to one of the top steps, Thom calls up to her. “How could you ask me that?” Bethroot turns and sees him standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest. She takes a step down to get a better look at his face; the skin around his right eye is already starting to bruise. “Do you really think I could make love to you if I were married to someone else?”

There is pain in his voice and the awful, spiteful part of herself thinks, _good, let him hurt._ He’s looking up at her with those eyes, those eyes that made it so easy to fall in love with him. Stepping down another stair, she thinks about her question. Bethroot felt bitter this afternoon, bitter and angry and small. She knows it’s thanks to her meeting with Josephine earlier and having to deal with the official response from the qunari over what happened in the Storm Coast.

It is as Josephine predicted: the Inquisition is now considered an enemy and no longer trustworthy. Just another reminder - like the list of dead soldiers Cullen handed her this morning, waiting to remembered in letters of condolences - how she needs to do better, needs to be better. Inadequate is the only word to describe her feelings at the moment. It’s not fair to take it out on Thom, asking questions she probably should wait to ask. Especially when he’s the one who just took a beating. She doesn’t need to add to his burden.

The seconds stretch between them and for once, it’s _her_ not answering the question, because she doesn’t even know how to begin. The silence seems to crush her, make her feel smaller than she already is. And then Thom shakes his head, and says, his voice shattered, “If you truly think I could do that to you, why would you ever fight for me in the first place?”

He starts to walk away and Bethroot knows this is it. She can’t let him think that, not for one second longer. “Because you’re kind,” Bethroot says quickly, going down two more steps, not sure if she should go to him. So, she stays back and remembers the very moment she realized: _him._

Confusion crosses Thom’s face as he walks back to the bottom of the stair case. Bethroot’s pleased he walks easily now, much better than when she helped him up off of the ground. “That’s…” Thom looks down at his feet. “That’s not a word people call me.”

“I’ve always thought it,” Bethroot says as she sits down on the step. She’s tired and worn out and just wants to _rest,_ but there is simply no time. This is the closest she’ll come to rest and it’s best to take advantage. “I had a stepfather, once. Did I ever tell you that?” She thinks of Darmin and how happy he made her mother for those few short years. Thom shakes his head as he steps up the stairs. “I sometimes can’t remember what I’ve told you,” Bethroot admits. “You never asked me any questions about myself, really. I worried sometimes I bored you a bit, so I kept some things to myself."

“You never bored me. Never,” Thom says and she hears pain again, but it’s self-inflicted this time, she thinks. “I wanted - I _want_ \- to know everything about you, Bethy. But I worried if I asked you questions…”

“I’d ask you the same ones?”

Thom takes another step and says with a tired sigh, “Like with my bloody name. Most natural question in the world for you to ask, my given name, and I couldn’t even tell you that.”

“I understand now. Didn’t then, but I do now,” Bethroot says, thinking of all the questions she held back, all the answers she desperately wanted to seek. “But about my stepfather. Good man, for a member of the Carta. He was killed about two years after he and my mam married.” She smiles at Thom and it feels like the most natural thing in the world, nothing feels forced. She _wants_ to tell him things; she doesn’t need to wait any longer, hoping he’ll ask her questions. Her past is hers to offer. “My mam had never been in love before she met Darmin. She told me the only lesson she wanted me to learn was to fall in love with someone kind.”

Thom takes another step up and Bethroot realizes he means to sit next to her. She moves over to the side of the stairs, to the side closest to the wall, knowing Thom hates to feel pinned in anywhere. The staircase is narrow and they barely fit side by side, but there is just enough room for them both. She looks up at him then while slipping her hand into his. “Do you remember, back in Haven, you bought me a pale lager.”

It’s a moment she’ll never forget. Bethroot always found him handsome, since the day they met and he saved her from an arrow in the head. But that night back in Haven, when he bought her a pale lager, when everyone else offered her Dwarven Ale, was the first time she felt like someone saw _Bethroot Cadash_ instead of the Herald of Andraste.

The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. “Of course I did. You hate Dwarven Ale.”

“I do, I hate it. Can barely drink the stuff,” Bethroot says, leaning against Thom completely. The tension which lingered between them since she she asked that question is gone, and she can’t help but feel grateful at that. “And you were the only one who ever noticed. That’s when I knew. Then you kept being so kind to me. Helping me get over my fear of being hit in battle. Tutoring me in military history. I don’t even care about military history.” A laugh escapes her lips and she can feel the redness in her cheeks at the admission. “I just wanted to spend time with you and hear your voice.”

He puts his arm around her then and Bethroot rests her head against his shoulder. _This_ hasn’t changed, she thinks gratefully. Even with everything between them, she still feels a sense of comfort and safety with his arms around her. “So you’re telling me, all that time I dredged up old history lessons, we could have been doing something else?”

“I should have figured out another way, I suppose,” Bethroot tells him, putting her hand on his knee, the one that bothers him sometimes. He doesn’t cringe like she thought he might. That injury potion certainly did the job. “I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“Time with you is never wasted, Bethy,” Thom says with such conviction in his voice that she believes him.

“There’s so much death and ugliness in my life right now,” Bethroot says slowly. “The thought of losing you…” She shakes her head. “I couldn’t… I didn’t have a choice but to fight for you.” There’s a lightness in her chest now and relief washes through her. “If it means anything, I’m sorry I asked that question.”

His grip tightens on her shoulder, and her eyes close as she feels him kiss the top of her head. “Then why’d you ask?” There’s no hostility or censure in his voice, only curiosity.

“I was angry this afternoon,” Bethroot admits. “I kept thinking what you told me in prison, that everything I knew about you was a lie.” She looks up at him and there is sadness in his eyes, probably reflected in her own.

“And you knew me as a man without a wife or child,” Thom says with a sigh that seems to encompass his whole chest.

“I’ll work through this eventually,” she says, knowing she must. She can’t hold these things against him if they are to have any chance.

“ _We’ll_ work through it.”

Bethroot takes his free hand and gives it a squeeze, thinking about the one word from his Judgment that has most stuck in her mind. Her voice barely a whisper, she says, “Together.”


	5. Day Five

**DAY FIVE**

Her hands won’t stop shaking.

Bethroot watches Bull walk down the stairs of the ramparts like nothing’s changed, as if two men wearing Inquisition uniforms didn’t just try to kill him. As if she didn’t stand right next to him, with no armor or weapons. And he expected her to be his _backup_?

Backup to The Iron Bull? It’s laughable.

Despite Thom’s patient efforts over the past year, her hand-to-hand combat skills are horrible. And she knows, she _knows_ , that she is by far the weakest fighter anytime she’s out in the field with her companions. If it weren’t for the Anchor, she wouldn’t be out in the field at all. Ancestors, she tries. She spends as much time in the practice range as she can, working to improve hitting a target as she moves, but there is a reason she worked with the nobility in Orzammar and wasn’t an assassin for the Carta.

Curling her hands into fists, Bethroot takes a few deep breaths and tries to ignore the fear and nervousness lingering in her stomach. A decision needs to be made. She all but ordered Bull to report the attempt to Leliana, but will he? Does she go behind his back, possibly betraying his trust, and take this to Leliana herself? And the more pressing question: how did a simple change in guard rotation tip Bull off but not Leliana? Who approved the change? Were they in league with the qun or simply doing their job?

The different possibilities make her head hurt and all she wants to do is sit back on her heels and ignore the world. But that’s not an option for the leader of the Inquisition.

Standing on tiptoe, Bethroot looks over the ramparts, down at the mountains below. Would it be foolish to send someone out to collect the bodies? Perhaps. The last thing she wants is to risk anyone’s life, but the thought of those bodies simply freezing and staying there forever makes her skin crawl.

To get away from those morbid thoughts, Bethroot turns and looks at the courtyard, wondering if she made the right choice in using the courtyard for an infirmary instead of more training grounds. Would more training areas have helped her today? It’s too late to tell, but she could work on her hand-to-hand training more. She’ll have to.

In the corner of her eye, she sees the stables. _Thom,_ she thinks. She’ll go talk to Thom. This time of day, he’s usually helping Master Dennet, or if there are no chores to be done, working on his wood projects. She’s not above admitting she just wants the steadiness of his presence next to her, so she can feel safe. After that display with Bull, thinking of the bodies falling to the ground, she can use the support

Thinking back to last night, Bethroot remembers falling asleep next to him and waking up this morning with his arms around her. Ancestors, she missed that feeling of curling up next to him. It’s the closest they’ve been since, well, since before.

She enters the stable and Thom sits on the chair by the fire, holding a small piece of wood and a carving knife. Just seeing him there helps even the unsteadiness of her pulse. He looks up at her approach and Bethroot can see a ghost of a smile forming before it’s quickly displaced by a furrowed brow. “What’s happened?” he asks, putting the block of wood and knife on the ground. “Bethy, what’s wrong?”

Will she ever be able to master her facial expressions? She thinks of Josephine and Leliana. Both women have such control over their features, while Bethroot feels like she’s an open book. Muscle memory makes her lean against his workbench like she’s done so many times in the past. Thom stands and takes a tentative step towards her, then another. Bethroot glances at the edge of the workbench and he takes the hint, placing his hands on her hips, lifting her up onto the table.

He starts to step away, but Bethroot reaches out and grabs the front of his gambeson, pulling him towards her. His arms go round her waist and as she rests her cheek against his, Bethroot relaxes for the first time since she saw the qunari assassin take out the knife.

“Please tell me what happened,” Thom says, and Bethroot can hear the worry in his voice.

Bethroot breaks away from his embrace and takes his hands, bare thanks to his woodworking, in hers. “I was walking the ramparts with Bull just now, and two qunari assassins went after him,” she says, speaking far too quickly. “Bull apparently wanted me to be his backup-”

“Were you in armor? Where’s your weapon?” Thom asks sharply and she watches his eyes roam her body, probably looking for some sign of battle.

“I didn’t know Bull was about to be attacked. He left that part out,” Bethroot says, closing her eyes.

She feels the palm of Thom’s hand against her cheek. “Are you hurt?” he asks softly.

Her eyes open, and for a moment she wants to rant against Bull, get the fear and panic out of her system, but the concern and worry in Thom’s face is a bit too much to take. “I’m fine, really. I am.”

His hands are on her hips now, their bodies flush, and Bethroot can feel his body heat through his gambeson. If Dorian only knew how right he had been when he said Thom would be warm by the fire. Energy seems to radiate off of him, but perhaps it’s simply from being human. “That’s twice now, Inquisitor, that there have been assassination attempts here in Skyhold.”

Her brow creases at the sudden use of her title, but combined with the serious look on Thom’s face, Bethroot realizes he’s speaking not as her lover - if he can be called that when they haven’t slept together since the night he left for Orlais - but as a member of her inner circle, one of her most trusted companions. “Bull and Josephine,” she says dully. “That doesn’t bode well, does it?” She bites her lower lip, an unpleasant thought crossing her mind. Surely there would be an attempt on her own life at some point, or if she learned anything from her time in the Carta, someone she cares about. “You might be a target at some point.”

“The Spymaster has someone shadowing my movements, probably for that very reason,” Thom says. Her brow furrows and Thom adds, a hint of surprise in his voice, “You didn’t know?”

She shakes her head and wonders how many other Inquisition activities she’s not aware of, all the work Leliana does behind the scenes. The Inquisition has grown so large, so quickly that it’s impossible, not to mention impractical, for her to know every detail.

And that weight, that knowledge that so many things are being done in her name without her even realizing it, hits her like an inferno. Maybe what Thom said during his Judgment is right. Maybe the Inquisition is corrupt.

A new fear bubbles up inside her: would she even know if it is?

“Bethy?" 

“I’m fine,” she insists, trying to brush away the past six weeks like a speck of dust. She tries not to think there might be others in Skyhold who want to harm her and her inner circle. She tries not to think how many times people have come close to succeeding. “I’m _fine_.”

The expression on Black - Thom, damn it - his face tells her he believes otherwise. He should know, shouldn’t he? Bethroot would be much closer to fine if he hadn’t left like he did, leaving her alone. She knows it’s pointless to wish things were different, that he only spoke to her before he left so they could have found another way. But he made his choice and she made hers to follow.

“I’m fine,” she whispers again, trying to convince herself, even as she feels tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, and not enough air makes its way into her lungs. She will not cry in front of him; she will not make him carry that burden when he has enough to bear. Her tears are _hers,_ they are not for him. But then Thom wraps his arms around her and holds her close, so close there’s no space between them.

Thom might consider himself a murderer, but Bethroot led _massacres_ in the name of the Inquisition and is celebrated for them. So many people have died since the Anchor found its way onto her hand. How many more people will die because of her? The Carta, the people of Haven, the Grey Wardens, the qunari, the countless Venatori and Red Templars who throw themselves at the Inquisition no matter how many losses they take. How much longer will she close her eyes, only to see those nameless qunari in the dreadnought haunting her?

She’s been walking a tightrope for so long, Bethroot doesn’t remember what solid ground feels like under her feet. “You’re fine,” Thom repeats softly, so very softly. And the tenderness in his voice is enough to finally let herself go, knowing he will catch her as she falls.

And so she weeps for everything they have lost.

#

Blackwall’s never felt more lost than this moment.

He’s never seen her like this. Never once has he seen Bethroot shed actual tears, and he’s smart enough to realize they’re not all for him. He wonders how long she’s been holding this inside without him realizing, caught up in his own misery and selfish desire.

Her fingers hold onto his gambeson like a lifeline, the way he holds onto his shield during battle. Blackwall tightens his arm around her waist while running his free hand through her hair, glad he’s not wearing gloves so he can place his hand on the back of her neck, a gesture that’s always calmed her in the past.

Bethroot’s silent sobs seems to lessen until she finally breaks away, eyes red, but with a calmness on her face he hasn’t seen in quite some time. He can already hear an apology forming, the absolute last thing she should offer, not when it’s he who should be apologizing to her.

What good is he as a partner if Bethroot holds all these worries and tears away from him? She opens her mouth to speak, looking somewhat embarrassed, so Blackwall does the only thing he can think of to keep the words at bay.

He kisses her.

It’s their first kiss since his Judgment and the moment his lips touch hers, all Blackwall feels is an overwhelming sense of _relief_. How in the world did he manage to survive prison without this, without her? He keeps the kiss light, hoping he’s not overstepped, leaving a bit of room between them, so she can move away if she wants. But then Bethroot pulls him closer as she slides her tongue past his lips and Blackwall all but moans into her mouth. He tightens his arms around her, and for a moment, completely forgets everything save the two of them.

He’s not sure how long they kiss, but it’s long enough he wants _more_ , greedy bastard that he is. So Blackwall ends the kiss, resting his brow on hers while they both attempt to catch their breath. Her nose bumps up right against his as she places her hands on the side of his neck.

They simply breathe, Blackwall gladly taking in the air she exhales, until a grumble in her stomach intervenes.

Blackwall chuckles, and is pleased to see a smile on Bethroot’s face as well. “The main hall should have supper ready by now,” she says and he can hear a roughness in her voice left over from her tears. “Suppose we grab a plate and go to your quarters?”

He nods, glad she suggested his quarters and not hers. Blackwall isn’t sure he’s ready to parade through the main hall for everyone to see. He helps Bethroot down from the workbench and they start walking - still a bit of distance between them - toward the main hall.

And then a high-pitched cry of “Murderer!” rings out across the courtyard.

Every day, every damn day since his Judgment it’s been like this. Once he steps out of the stables or his quarters, people are staring, their eyes angry and unbelieving. Every step he takes is besieged by whispers and taunts, some more vocal than others. Blackwall tries not to let it get to him, understanding he deserves their anger and their scorn and sometimes, like yesterday, their fists. Instead he accepts it, letting their ire delve deep under his skin. As rough as these few days have been with her, he thinks he might have gone mad without Bethroot.

Blackwall half-fears Bethroot will demand to find out who yelled out the words, but much to his relief, she doesn’t and quickens her pace. They step into the Main Hall and the buzz of conversation lessens considerably, all eyes focused on him and the Herald.

The dull weight in his chest seems to expand as he realizes this is the first time they’ve truly been in public together since his Judgment. Their evenings have been spent walking the ramparts and their nights in the safety of his own quarters, far from prying eyes.

Trying to ignore the pointed stares, he fills his plate with cuts of meat and a medley of vegetables as the conversation around them changes. He hears his name, his real name, and Bethroot’s, over and over again. He tries to ignore the words, focusing on Bethroot, pleased to see her plate almost matches his own, and worries about the thin line of her mouth.

They cut through the garden to get to his quarters, and as they do, someone yells, “Traitor.”

This time, Bethroot does look around, her face scrunched up in anger as she does. The other people in the garden all avoid her gaze and Blackwall has no idea who might have shouted.

“My lady, please don’t,” Blackwall says in a quiet voice. She looks up at him then, her gaze studying him carefully, before she nods.

The silence between them takes a turn toward uncomfortable and he can only imagine the questions she’ll have for him once they get to his room. Only when the door is safely shut behind them, only then does the tightness he feels anytime he walks around Skyhold lessen its grip.

“Has it been like that since you’ve been back?” Bethroot asks, her voice low.

Blackwall puts down his plate of food on the dresser and find himself wanting to protect her from the truth. But he _will not lie_ , not any more. “Worse, usually,” he says, trying to deflect the words with a shrug, thinking of the threats made, the anonymous notes he finds in the stables. “You being next to me kept some tongues at bay, I’d wager.”

She places her plate next to his and turns around, staring at some invisible mark in the corner. She’s silent long enough that Blackwall starts to worry, wondering what she’s thinking. He sits on the bed, wishing for block of wood and a knife, something, anything to do while he waits for her to speak.

“I meant what I said during your Judgment,” Bethroot says, turning toward him and Blackwall sees her eyes are bright. Her words start to tumble out. “You have your freedom. If things are bad here, if you need to get away or want to help people your own way, I’ll understand. You can leave the Inquisition. You could join the Wardens.”

The words hit him like a blow and he realizes he’s barely given the Wardens a thought since he’s been back at Skyhold. Blackwall thinks back to the words he told her in the stables. _There’s no future for us with me as a Warden._ The words ring truer than ever at the moment. If, after what she’s done for him, given him his freedom, if he up and left to become a Warden, he would essentially be leaving _her_.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, wanting no misunderstanding between them.

“No,” she says, so resoundingly that he has no doubt. “Leliana and Josephine… They both wanted me to order you to join the Wardens during your Judgment.” She looks down at the ground. “I want something like that to be your choice, not mine.”

He tries to picture it. Tries to picture himself being a Warden-Recruit. Wearing the chestpiece he took from the Warden-Constable as his right, not as an impostor. If he made that choice, Blackwall knows he would have to commit himself completely to their cause, and that would mean leaving the Inquisition.

It would mean leaving this dwarf who stands in front of him, who loves him more than he deserves, enough to risk so much for his freedom. Where she is, he wants to be. Simple as that. The Wardens gave him so much for those long years. They led him to Bethroot and to the Inquisition. Now he thinks he’s ready to let go of that dream.

“I’m done running,” Blackwall says, holding out his hand, wanting to feel the comforting weight of her small hand in his.

The moment they touch, he feels more at ease. She steps in close, standing between his legs, and kisses him softly. Maker, it feels good to have her lips against his own.

A weariness settles over him as he wonders if this is to be the rest of his life, known only as a traitor, someone to belittle and scorn. He deserves it all, he knows he does, but notorious as he’s become, sometimes the walls of Skyhold feel more like a cage than prison ever did.

“I can’t do this without you, Bethy,” he whispers, thinking of the days and months and years ahead, atoning for his sins. He’ll spend the rest of his life working to help people. One person has the power to change people’s lives, for good or for ill, no matter what other people might think, and Blackwall will do what he can to make their lives _better_.

Bethroot turns and sits down on his knee. “Yes, you can,” she says, her voice clear and sure, and Blackwall finds himself taking solace in her confidence. She squeezes his hand.

“But you won’t have to.”


	6. Day Six

**DAY SIX**

It's unusually warm for Harvestmere.

Even at dusk, it’s warm enough Bethroot wears a short-sleeved tunic as she walks through the courtyard. She has a bit of free time, so she thinks to train, having not picked up a bow since they left the Storm Coast. The long break leaves her foggy and she’s a poor enough fighter she can’t afford that.

The training grounds are crowded, as they usually are in the late afternoon, with everyone wanting to get their practice and training out of the way before dark. Her eyes roam, looking for Thom, who said he would train as well. They leave for the Fallow Mires in three days, and she wants to be as ready and in shape as he seems determined to be.

She finds him near the corner of the yard, talking to a guard. Bethroot watches as Thom settles into a defensive stance. She can’t hear his words, but he’s talking and nodding as the guard imitates him. Watching him train the recruits individually like this always fascinates her. _This_ is what he’s meant to do. Yes, he can fight, and is one of the better fighters she’s ever known, but not everyone can impart knowledge like he is able to. The way the recruits respond to him is a marvel to watch. Already, a second soldier has walked over and joined.

The sight pleases her to no end. Just two days ago, he said he showed up to train and was completely ignored. Now the soldiers are willing to learn. She supposes the need to learn trumps all other concerns for some.

Thom twists his torso and their eyes meet. Bethroot is struck by such a wave of want and longing it leaves her unbalanced. He looks _good_ , wearing a tight-fitted shirt for sparring, hair messed up from training, his eyes bright and eager. The six weeks which have passed since they were last together seem to crash into her and Bethroot doesn’t think she’s ever wanted him more than she does right now.

Especially now, when they’re both trying so desperately to heal things between them. And it’s working, it’s actually working. Last night, they lay in bed and he told her a bit about his life after winning the Grand Melee without her even needing to ask. She worried a bit after her breakdown in the stables, he might treat her differently, having never seen her cry before. If anything, it seemed to remind him that she’s simply a person, just like anyone else. It’s a lesson they both needed to remember.

But that’s not why she’s here, Bethroot chides herself, walking over to the range and picking up a practice bow. Flexing her fingers, she rolls her shoulders, pleased not to feel a single twinge from her stab wound. She stares at the target as she settles into her stance, feeling the feathers from the arrow tickle her cheek. Holding her breath, her muscles tighten before she lets the arrow loose.

It hits, but a little to the left. Narrowing her eyes, she looks at the bow. When she stands still, she can hit targets just fine, with quite good aim. It’s when she needs to move and shoot at the same time she has problems. To miss her target standing still means she has more work than she cares to admit.

So, she works. Her back pointedly towards Blackwall, so as not to let herself be distracted, Bethroot practices. Arrow after arrow is loosed while she trains. Standing still, moving back and forth, until she finally feels the rust shaken completely off her form.

“Hard at work, I see.”

A slow smile crosses her face as she looks up at Thom, and moves her bangs, now damp from sweat, out of her eyes. She’s breathing heavy, thanks to her practice routine, and she doesn’t miss how his eyes seem to be caught up in the rise and fall of her chest.

He takes a step closer and she inhales deeply, smelling sweat and wood and leather. As they stare at each other, a drop of sweat trickles down Thom’s neck and it takes more willpower than Bethroot realizes she possessed not to grab his shoulders and lick it off.

And then she can think of no reason why she shouldn’t.

“Are you done training?” she asks quietly, feeling a familiar ache between her legs. She hasn’t touched herself once since the night he left for Orlais, not even to relieve her stress. It’s been a _very_ long six weeks.

Thom nods, crossing his arms over his chest. The move raises his shirt just enough so Bethroot can see a bit of his stomach, not to mention the hair trailing down to his... 

“Will you come with me to my room?” she asks in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard. If they are to make love for the first time since before he left for Orlais - which she thinks they both want, thanks to the way he stares at her - she wants the absolute privacy of her quarters. Where they will be hundreds of steps away from anyone else, where it can truly just be the two of them.

His brow furrows slightly; Bethroot knows he doesn’t particularly like the gaudiness of her bedroom, but Thom especially hates that the entrance is in the main hall, where anyone can see him.

“Please,” Bethroot asks, not even caring there’s a slight plea in her voice. It’s desperate, this wanting, as heat spreads through her veins, needing to feel his bare hands on her skin, his mouth on her breasts, and the delicious stretch as he pushes into her.

“Yes,” he says and the gruffness in his voice is enough to make her squeeze her legs together, trying to alleviate the heat she feels between her thighs.

She walks to the equipment stand and Thom follows right behind. As she puts away her bow and quiver, his fingers brush against the back of her neck and it’s all Bethroot can do not to turn around and push him to the ground before jumping on top of him.

They don’t speak as they walk to the Great Hall. Bethroot briefly considers letting her hand accidentally-on-purpose touch his, but decides against it. The gossip mongers of Skyhold will have plenty, soon. She doesn’t need to give them more.

Like yesterday, when they stopped in for supper, Bethroot ignores all of the voices with their names on their lips. Grabbing a meal was one thing; this, going up to her quarters together, is something different. It’s almost enough to change her mind, to suggest going to his quarters instead. She looks up to tell him so, but stops at the sight of his face.

He’s staring at the door that leads up to her quarters as intent as she’s ever seen. She wonders what he’s thinking, if he’s worried about what people will say, or the assumptions they’ll make. Perhaps she’ll ask him at some point; she’s curious to know the answer.

“Blackwall?” she asks, remembering to use his preferred name in public.

He looks down at her then and Bethroot sees a hint of a smile beneath his beard. Just the upturned corners of his mouth relax her and she’s more than ready to tackle the stairs to get up to her room. “After you, my lady,” he says.

The closer they get to the door leading to her quarters, the quieter the main hall becomes. Not wanting to prolong anything, Bethroot doesn’t hesitate the moment she reaches the door, nodding to the guards as they let her and Thom inside.

Once the door is safely closed behind them and they’re alone in the darkened stairwell, she’s not surprised when Thom picks her up, pushes her against the wall, and they kiss as if their lives depend on it.

#

How did he survive six weeks without this?

She feels so good, _so fucking good,_ and looks even better, the way she moves above him. Blackwall grips her hips more tightly, digging his fingers into her flesh. He needs to be closer; it’s impossible to be as close as he wants. So, he lifts his hips with a snap, just as she pushes down, allowing him to delve even deeper.

Bethroot gasps, bracing herself on his chest with her hands. He thrusts his hips again, the cotton sheets feeling cool against his heated skin, and this time she moans out his name. His real name.

And Blackwall starts to go limp.

It takes a few more rolls of her hips before Bethroot realizes what’s happened. It’s not as if this hasn’t happened before, thanks to too much drink or exhaustion - he refuses to think it might have something to do with age, Maker, anything but that - but never when he’s already inside her.

Blackwall turns his head to the side, shame flooding through him, not wanting to see Bethroot’s face. The palms of her hands are soft on his stomach and he can feel the callouses on her fingertips as she curls her fingers into his chest hair.

"Thom?" she asks in a questioning voice, even as she’s still breathing hard, and he shuts his eyes tight, as if that alone could keep him from hearing his name. If he could crawl into a hole and never be seen again, he’d gladly take that option at the moment.

Bethroot raises her hips and Blackwall has the usual sense of endings as he slips out of her warmth. Placing his hands palms down on the bed, he makes no resistance as she climbs off of him.

He opens his mouth to speak, but finds he has no words. What is there to say? In private, she wants to call him Thom, as is her right, but he had no idea how much it truly bothered him. He told her during his Judgment he didn’t know how to be with her as Thom Rainier, but it never felt more true than this moment. “I’m sorry,” he offers meekly, tasting bitterness and shame on his tongue.

Instead of lying next to him, Bethroot sits cross-legged on the bed, the tips of her fingers drawing nonsense patterns in his chest hair. The silence of the room is almost comforting, the only sound the wind outside the open balcony doors and the two of them trying to catch their breath. Thom reaches within himself and finds the courage to look up at her. There is no frustration or disappointment in her face, just concern.

“I’ll call you Blackwall in public, like you asked,” she says after a moment. She shakes her head and he senses a hint of anger, hiding beneath the surface. “But I am not calling you Blackwall in bed.”

And there it is. He knows she disagrees with his choice to still be called Blackwall, but it’s in his blood. The name is more than a name to him; it’s an ideal, as he told her. It’s a reminder never to let himself go back to how things used to be. But he does see her point, so he takes her hand, lacing her small fingers through his thick ones. “I know,” he tells her.

She brings his hand to her lips and kisses the inside of his wrist, right where the pulse would be. “Did we start up again too soon?” she asks, squeezing his hand. “I thought we were… You’ve only been free for a week. Do you need more time?”

Blackwall shakes his head. He doesn’t quite know what he needs, but it’s not time. Time’s not guaranteed to any of them with the lives they lead, and he doesn’t want to waste any of it. With a sigh, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing the dressing gown Bethroot gave him for his birthday and throws it over his shoulders. “Water?” he asks as he walks to the commode.

“Please.”

He pours a glass for them to share. “It’s just…” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “I spent so long trying to get away from Thom Rainier. In my head, he was truly dead and buried. And now, just like that, I have to be that bastard again.”

Bethroot is silent as he takes a sip of water, then another before refilling the glass. There’s pain on Bethroot’s face and he wonders what she’s thinking. “Do you blame me?” she asks quietly.

Again he finds himself wanting to protect her rather than tell the truth, a habit that must end. "The right thing for you to do would have been letting me hang, Bethy, let's not dance around that," Thom says gently, walking back to the bed. He hands her the glass of water and this time, their fingers do linger together, almost reluctantly parting.

Blackwall sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing the fabric of the dressing gown between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a heavy brocade, with a silk lining. Dark red and pale yellow, colors he would never choose for himself - he prefers more earthy colors, greens and browns - but Bethroot seems to love jewel tones.

“What right would there have been if you died? I need you to _live._ ” She says the words so softly he can barely hear her. But then Bethroot looks up, eyes bright. “And if there are consequences for that, I accept them.”

Consequences. The word seems to slip easily enough from her tongue, settling onto Blackwall’s shoulders. The rumors are already running rampant over what was given in order to secure his release. From what he can tell, the lady Ambassador did a very skillful job. But that’s just his release.

Those Grey Warden treaties - the ones he took from the Warden-Constable’s bag, the ones he was proud to give the Inquisition - are now biting them in the ass, from what he’s heard. How could one man fuck up so much?

The truth is that Thom Rainier weakened the Inquisition and Bethroot allowed it to happen.

Thom fucking Rainier.

He wants to shed the name like a second skin, but it will always be a part of him. No matter what he does, he’ll be dodging the name for the rest of his life and already it exhausts him. “It’s just that name, Bethy,” he says, and he’s utterly ashamed of himself. Yet the shame is mixed with relief, absolute relief that he doesn’t have to lie to this woman any longer. She will accept his truth and it’s more liberating than he ever thought it would be. “It’s been moaned by too many whores and cursed by too many men. I don’t…”

He’s not sure when she slipped behind him, but he feels her thighs next to his and her breasts pressed against his back. She slides her palms around his torso, one on his stomach, the other on his chest. Looking down, Blackwall swears he sees a soft glow from the Mark as she holds him tight.

They must look ridiculous, the way she’s wrapped around him. Even so, a warmth rushes through his body and Blackwall closes his eyes, accepting the comfort she offers. Even through the robe, he can feel her lips press against his back as he puts his hands on top of hers. “What about Thomas?”

He blinks, thinking how long and how far he ran to escape that name. “That was my father’s name,” he says, thinking of the last time he saw his father alive, after his mother died. Blackwall remembers thinking just how _small_ his father seemed, especially after being so terrified of him and his fists as a child.

“It’s _your_ name. I read the report. You gave it up,” Bethroot says.

_Thomas._ The name doesn’t fit, not like it did when he was a child, but it could be so easy to go back to that name. And perhaps - Maker, it feels wrong to even think this now, after all he’s put her through - but perhaps he and Bethroot wed some day? Blackwall could cite the dwarven tradition of taking the name of whoever is in the highest caste and would become Thomas Cadash. Thom Rainier could disappear forever then.

But his past will never disappear. Wouldn’t it be best then to own it? _You’re free to atone as the man you are._ How could Thomas atone for the crimes of Thom? _How could Blackwall?_ The traitorous voice inside his head asks, but he knows he’s not ready for that, not yet.

He truly is his father’s son, running at any sign of difficulty, like he’s done his whole fucking life, even going as far as running away from a name. A bloody name. But not anymore. Not when he has a woman like Bethroot to keep him grounded. Going forward, he won’t let his name cause any more grief or pain.

He gives Bethroot’s hands a squeeze and makes his decision. “You can call me Thom.”


	7. Day Seven

**DAY SEVEN**

She wakes before him, which happens so rarely Bethroot worries something is wrong. But Thom is flat on his back, gently snoring, and she’s snug in the crook of his arm.

The fire is all but out in the fireplace, but thanks to the morning light - the sun is still behind the mountain, they haven’t missed today’s sunrise yet - she can clearly see Thom’s face. Bethroot watches his eyes, wondering where he might be in the Fade, what sort of dreams he had during the night. Lately, there seems to be an echo when she sleeps, a chime that she can’t quite hear. She doesn’t think she’s dreaming, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps her trip to the Fade still clings to her skin. Asking Solas is an option, but she thinks to keep this to herself for now.

“Bethy.” His voice is hoarse from sleep and Bethroot feels that same wanting from yesterday spread throughout her body, thanks to the way his voice curls around her name.

“Good morning, Thom,” she says softly, waiting for the cringe or the wince that usually accompanies his given name, but none comes.

Running the palm of her hand up his chest, his chest hair tickling her palm, she finds herself again wondering about the scars on his right shoulder. Her fingers trace the scars and Bethroot decides she’ll have to ask about them some day. A warmth runs through her and she smiles, knowing when she finally gets around to asking, Thom will answer.

As if he’s able to read her mind, Thom says, “The Battle of Perendale, nine thirty-one.” His eyes are closed as he continues. “Bastard Nevarran had a spiked mace. Tore right through my armor.”

“Is that why you have the extra armor on that shoulder?” Bethroot asks.

“I’m not awake enough to go over armor dynamics,” he says with a chuckle. “Maybe later.”

Thom lifts his hand, then closes it into a fist. She tilts her head slightly in confusion, but then he takes his fingers and gently glides them along the scar on the left side of her face, silently asking a question.

“An old lover and I tried to branch out on our own and the deal went south,” Bethroot says, taking his fingers and holding them to her lips. “He had to choose between the lyrium or me.”

“No,” Thom says and she can hear a hint of disbelief in his voice.

Shrugging, Bethroot remembers how much pain that knife caused. Even four years later she can remember the blade piercing her skin, though it feels like a lifetime ago, something that happened to someone else completely. “If our positions had been reversed, I probably would have made the same choice back then.”

“And now?”

She leans forward and presses her lips against his. “I’ve changed a lot since then. You understand.”

He nods, his eyes bright, before kissing her. The kiss is soft and slow and when Thom slides his hand around her hip to rest on her ass, Bethroot remembers _exactly_ where they left off last night.

His tongue slides between her lips and Bethroot ignores the awkward angle she’s at, wanting to only concentrate on _him._ They kiss until she can barely breathe, all lips and tongue and saliva. But when she takes his hand and guides it to her breast, Thom pulls away.

“Wait,” he says, his voice strained.

Bethroot turns her head, her stomach suddenly a knot of anxiety. There have been times in the past when he’s stopped things before they really started and she’s always understood. But this, this she doesn’t understand. Kissing her like _that_ and then wanting to wait doesn’t make any sense.

“Your face, Bethy. _Fuck,_ I’m doing this all wrong.” With one quick move, Thom is on his side and before she can respond, he kisses her hard.

She relaxes against him at once, but it’s a quick kiss, over before it’s really begun. “What are you doing wrong?” she asks, trying to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Be quicker to list the things I’ve done right,” he says with a chuckle, which loosens the knot in her stomach. But then his face turns serious in a way Bethroot doesn’t quite understand. “Before we - before we do this, there’s something I need to say.”

There’s no laughter in his voice now as he places his hand on her hip. Taking a deep breath, Bethroot takes a moment to adjust her pillow, wanting to be face to face with Thom. “I’m listening.”

“When this started, I let you think I would only be around for a few years,” Thom says.

Bethroot inhales sharply, wondering whether it’s worth it to correct him or not. Complete honesty wins out over a lie of omission. She puts her hand on top of his, and gives it a squeeze. “I didn’t learn about the Calling until Crestwood,” she says. “We were already together then.”

Thom’s eyes go wide from realization as he runs a hand over his beard. “I didn’t think of that at all.” He wraps his arms around her then and Bethroot offers no resistance as he pulls her flush against his chest. “Oh, Maker, what I’ve put you through…”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs as he rests his brow against hers.

“No, it's not,” Thom says simply. “And I don’t think I’ve actually said the words ‘I’m sorry’ to you yet. I should have handled everything very differently. I know that now. Will you ever forgive me, Bethy?”

She pulls back to get a better view of his face. There’s no question of the earnestness there, of the hope reflecting in his eyes. She can think of only one response and she means every word. “I forgive you, Thom.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, and Bethroot hears a benediction in his words. “Maker-willing, I’ve a long life ahead of me.” His eyes close as he takes a breath and when he continues, there’s a hitch in his voice. “If you stay with me…”

The knot of anxiety comes back in full force. “If?”

Thom kisses her softly then and she can see the pain on his face, in the furrow of his brow. “I might as well speak plain,” he says, his voice tight. “Bethy, I know you want to be a mother.”

She blinks a few times and looks away. She didn’t realize she had been so obvious looking at the children around Skyhold and the camps. They never spoke once about the future, because Bethroot thought they didn’t have one. Deep in the back of her thoughts, never lingered on when he was near, she figured she would fall in love again after Blackwall went to his Calling. And she always assumed this mysterious person would be another dwarf and they’d raise a family together.

Her relationship with her mother had been one of the most important of her life. Even now, more than two years later, Bethroot doesn’t go a day without thinking of her mother, though the sting lessens slightly each day. She wishes Thom could have met her.

Bethroot always hoped to share a bond like that with a child of her own some day. A child she might never have if she stays with Thom.

“Half-dwarves are rare, but not impossible,” Bethroot says, her voice low and full of conviction behind her words. “And if that doesn’t work, there are always children that need parents.”

Thom reaches out then, putting his hand on her cheek, and she leans into his touch, like always. “No one would give me a child to raise. Not after what I’ve done,” he says and there is sadness lingering throughout his voice. “If we are to do this, if we’re going to be together, I want to make sure our eyes are open.”

Rolling onto her back, Bethroot brings the blanket up to cover herself as she turns his words over in her mind. Her life would be enriched with a child, no doubt, but she would still be whole without one. Then she thinks about Thom, how dark everything seemed without him, and those horrible weeks when she didn’t know if he would live or die.

The mark on her hand might be an anchor to the Fade, but he is _her_ anchor, keeping her grounded. She turns on her side and there is such understanding in Thom’s eyes that it’s almost painful. He’s giving her permission to live the life she dreamed of as a child, a life as a wife and mother, but it would be a life without _him._

Bethroot makes a decision which will affect the rest of her days. She wants to be with _him._ She wants Thom Rainier, a man with a despicable past, who isn’t really a Warden.

The certainty of him settles into her bones and Bethroot smiles, knowing exactly how to show him.

#

She slips out of bed before Blackwall has a chance to ask her to stay. “Bethy?” he asks. The confusion in his voice makes her turn around and she holds up a hand, silently asking for time. So he clears his mind and enjoys the view as Bethroot walks to her desk.

He watches her take something out of the top drawer, but misses what it is, because he’s a dirty old bugger who can’t take his eyes off her breasts. There’s a knowing smirk on Bethroot’s face as she walks back to the bed, a hand behind her back.

Once she reaches the bed, Blackwall holds out his hand to help her back up. It will never cease to amaze him how her hands, which are so small compared to his own, always end up comforting _him._

Bethroot settles back into bed, close enough so they’re almost touching, but not quite. And then she brings her hand out from behind her back and unfurls her fingers.

His breath catches as he realizes just what he’s seeing: the handkerchief she made just for him all that time ago, the one he thought lost in an Orlesian prison.

Blackwall somehow remembers to breathe as Bethroot places the piece of linen into his hand. And this time, their fingers stay entwined together. “Here,” she says simply, as if she hasn’t just returned the most precious item he’s ever had in his life. “I believe this is yours.”

It’s slightly worse for wear - he’ll need to find a hot iron and clip the stray threads - and even in the low light he can see patches of dirt marring the fabric, but it’s perfect and it’s _his._

“I never thought I would see this again,” he says, hearing the wonder in his voice and knowing it to be ridiculous. Surely, there’s a simple story to how Bethroot came to find the handkerchief, but right now he doesn’t care much for the details, only that it’s not lost in Orlais forever.

“Thank Josephine,” Bethroot says and there’s a hint of redness in her cheeks as she scoots a bit closer. “She’s the one who found it.”

He brings it up to his nose and inhales deeply, realizing right away that it will need to be washed. But hints of her are there. Blackwall swears he smells a trace of the lavender soap from Denerim she favors. Then, as carefully as he can, he reaches over Bethroot and places the handkerchief on the nightstand, where he can see it.

Her arms go round him and she buries her face in the crook of his neck. Without even thinking, Blackwall slides his hands around her, bringing her in as close as he can. Perhaps the honorable thing to do is try to convince Bethroot to change her mind, remind her that she’s only twenty-six and that he’ll be an old man sooner rather than later. But the truth is he’s too relieved to even consider the thought. Instead, he kisses the top of her head, wondering what he might have possibly ever done right in his life to deserve this.

She looks up at him then, as if to answer his unspoken question. “I love you,” she whispers. Blackwall marvels at the certainty he feels, at the knowledge deep in his marrow, that he is loved. The corners of his mouth twitch up in a smile and threaten to turn into a full-fledged grin as as he does something he hasn’t done since the night he left for Orlais all those weeks ago.

With two fingers, he gently presses against Bethroot’s neck and finds her pulse. It’s quicker, quicker than he’s felt before, but steady. Keeping his fingers on her pulse, Blackwall leans forward and rests his brow against hers as she wraps her own fingers around his wrist. “I love you, too,” he says just as softly.

He’s not sure how long they stay there, simply breathing in each other’s arms _,_ but he doesn’t think it could ever be long enough.

“Speaking of eyes being open, what about you?” Bethroot asks suddenly and there is a slight hesitation in her voice. “You deserve to fight for a cause you can believe in. If you think the Inquisition - that I’m corrupt-”

“That was anger and fear talking, Bethy,” Blackwall says, interrupting her, remembering the absolute hurt on her face during his Judgment as he lashed out. “I didn’t mean it and more importantly, I don’t believe that.” He takes his hand and slides it around her waist, reveling in the smooth skin underneath his palms, and decides to repeat her own words back to her, in case she has forgotten. “And besides, my place is here with you.”

Her smile lights up her whole face; it’s a beautiful thing to see, and he’s sure he will never see enough of that smile. “I’m glad,” she says and there is _joy_ in her voice. As much as he wants to ponder how he could possibly be the cause, he pushes those doubts away. In the darkest corner of his mind, he might think she deserves better, that he’ll never be worthy of her, but Bethroot’s made her choice and he’ll respect it.

Blackwall makes no resistance as she pulls him closer, her breasts pressing into his chest. There’s desire in her eyes and he can’t wait another moment. Embers are seemingly around them and he’s ready for the spark to set them aflame.

So, he kisses her, long and deep, and Bethroot kisses him back. But unlike their kisses last night, which were desperate and frantic, when they couldn’t join together fast enough, these kisses are slow and quiet. Warmth radiates from from her palms as she slides her hands up his back. Between their kisses and his lady’s touch, Blackwall feels himself responding.

Relief washes through him and he can’t help but moan into Bethroot’s mouth. She breaks away then, but only to turn onto her back and Blackwall thinks he’s about to burst at the eagerness on her face as she reaches out for him. He settles on top of her and they _kiss_. Each touch is an affirmation as they whisper to each other: yes, please, _more._

When Blackwall pushes into her, he realizes there is nothing but honesty between them. All the lies and the secrets are torn down. Illusions have been shattered and he is choosing her just as much as she is choosing him. He lay his heart bare before her and in response, she handed him her own, a gift he will treasure for the rest of his days.

And this time, when she cries out his name, his _real_ name, Blackwall doesn’t stumble or falter, instead keeping up the steady rhythm of his hips as he looks down at Bethroot, sensing a prayer on his lips as he kisses her. He’s uttered no prayers since that night, almost seven years ago, but this morning, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back and hearing Bethroot’s encouraging words in his ear, he thinks perhaps he could.

In fact, he thinks he should.

So he will. He’ll find the time this afternoon to go to the small chapel in the gardens to give thanks to the Maker and Andraste. But for now, his focus is completely on Her Herald.

They finish together in a haze of moans and gasps and whispered words. Once he’s collected himself, Blackwall rests his brow against Bethroot’s, absolutely spent, having given her _everything_ , everything he is and everything he hopes to be.

Bethroot squirms slightly beneath him, a tell-tale sign she’d like him to move. Rolling onto his back, Blackwall tries to bring her with him, which only makes her laugh. Then she settles on her side next to him, before stroking the side of his neck. His eyes close at her touch, at the softness of her palms and the callouses on her fingertips. Soon they’ll have to get up and leave the quiet serenity of this room, but until then, he just wants to enjoy this moment.

“We missed the sunrise,” Bethroot says softly, resting her chin on his chest as she looks out the open balcony doors. The light from outside softens her face as she lightly runs her nails over his chest. There’s a look of peace on her face, one he’s only seen a few times before.

Blackwall’s hand rests lightly on her ass and he gives it a squeeze, which she immediately rewards with a smile. Always the sunrise with her. Before, he thought it fanciful, but right now, he can’t think of anything he’d rather do than watch the sun rise with her. “There’ll be others,” he says and his mind wanders to the struggles ahead of him, ahead of them both. But, as she told him just the other day, they won’t face those struggles alone. “We’ll have our chance.”

He looks out the doors and breathes in deeply, enjoying the crisp mountain air as Bethroot presses her lips against his chest. A sunrise. Such a simple little thing to look forward to. Yet, he does. Because it will be with _her._ And that’s when Blackwall realizes, for the first time in a very long time, he will welcome tomorrow’s dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to theherocomplex, maybetwice, and jegaphone for their beta work!


End file.
